Pythian Games

put on your track shoes and write the miles

Archive for the ‘Portraiture’ Category

Drawing Time

with 5 comments

Felt in the portrait mood late, so here’s a face I drew for practice while waiting for my bus after food shopping. No, not done from life–just from my head–but without being able to erase,which is good practice.practice face

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Written by porchsitter

June 1, 2009 at 8:00 pm

Yet Another Scrapbook Page

with 7 comments

I made a page for my friend, after we spent the afternoon together last Monday. We hadn’t seen each other in at least a year, and she asked me earlier that day if I was free to meet up in the afternoon.

I brought my camera so we could take pictures of each other. When I got home, I used the first (and only candid) picture I got of my friend to make this scrapbook page. I chose the quote and the background images of Marlene Deitrich because my friend reminds me of those old time actresses who did whatever they wanted and still managed to be so nonchalant about it.

Written by Alexis

May 28, 2008 at 11:26 am

Posted in Digital Scrapbooking, Portraiture

Tagged with

Into the Forest

with 9 comments

“Into the Forest”

Photo Montage

L. Gloyd (c) 2008

Written by Pelican1

May 28, 2008 at 3:54 am

Posted in Portraiture

Little Things

with 8 comments

It’s those little things people remember about you, you know.

 

It’s not all the work you did, your big accomplishments, awards you achieved, contests or contracts you won.  It’s the little off-the-record comments that make people miss you.  After you’re gone, I mean.

 

One of my co-workers died a couple years ago.  A very nice guy named Denny.  He did good work, knew his IT, served his country, but I remember the little things.  I found some salt water taffy in the community candy dish…it reminded me that Denny used to bring the freshest, softest taffy back every time he returned from visiting his mother out East.  He also would bake bread a couple times a week and bring it in to the office to share…

 

It wasn’t just the food – it was Denny’s thoughtfulness.  He brought an ice scoop and a cup to rest it in so we didn’t have to use our hands to get ice…and a plastic pitcher with a line marked so we’d make never-fail coffee… he brought his spare drill into the office, just in case…it’s come in handy a number of times… 

 

Denny was genuinely cheerful – not in a fake perky sort of way – when he said, “Happy Tuesday!” – he meant it.  His joy de vivre was contagious – I felt better when he was around. 

 

So even though I didn’t know Denny well, I remember him, and I miss him.  For his practicality, his thoughtfulness, his smile, the way he always said, “Thank you, thank you!” – all the little things that made him Denny.

 

…Makes me wonder what people will remember about me…

 

© 2008 Kerry Vincent

Written by kvwordsmith

May 21, 2008 at 6:30 pm

Pink Lady on her Birthday

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Pink Lady

On her birthday
in pink satin
with her new helmet
and her new scooter
my lady rides

 

Written by cronelogical

May 19, 2008 at 1:58 am

Posted in Portraiture

Brenda Clipstone – Lemurian Portrait

with 12 comments

SibylGarden

At Riversleigh Manor there are many diversions. Brenda Clipstone offers martial arts and training with Chi in the gardens most days. Take your time to enjoy working with her. It will enhance your feeling of well being.

(The real, secret story of Brenda,

formidable martial arts instructor,

Riversleigh Gardens in black pants, rainbow hair and top,

cuts to the chase, with karate chops,

with thoughts of he who did her wrong.

Brenda has a broken heart, from he who done

her wrong.)

Here is Brenda’s private song

sung to her by the musical sprite

chorus in the Murmuring Woods,

where she often walks,

like Artemis:

“She tried to get the love,
tried to get the love –
tried -to – get – the – love,

from a hard man,
grown man,
lone man,
stone man.

But she didn’t get the love,
didn’t get the love –
didn’t – get – the – love,

now she’s a hard woman,
grown woman,
lone woman,
stone woman.

(Grown woman,
home woman,
wise woman,)”

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

(image copyright Heather Blakey 2008.)

(Song originally came from Lemurian Abbey Archives, July 2005.)

Written by imogen88

April 16, 2008 at 11:01 am

The Examination

with 8 comments

The boy stood stork-like on one leg, with the opposite foot rubbing up and down the long, raw weal of a scar on his spindly calf. The scar wound jaggedly down his leg from nearly knee to ankle, dipping in where muscle had been lost and bone had cut through. The boy realized what he was doing and flushed, putting the foot down rapidly and shifting so that his weight was borne by the good leg.

The boy looked well enough, aside from the scar. A little scrawny, perhaps, but the children from mountain villages frequently were. The growing season up there was short enough that rations were often strained, and children’s growth suffered.

He had made a youngster’s effort to be clean – there were high-tide marks at his wrists where he had washed his hands, and his face showed signs of a similarly perfunctory washing with a slightly less grimy area around his mouth and nose. His calloused feet were filthy and bare, and his legs were smeared with dried mud. His bony little knees and elbows were scabbed and scraped, all normal for a small boy.

He wore a pair of too-large shorts that were dyed a muddy brown and had numerous patches and darns. They were held up with a length of braided woolen cord, probably twisted from bits of fleece gathered here and there. He had a small felted pouch hanging from it, bulging with what were probably all of the boy’ belongings, and a small belt-knife with the handle wrapped in cord. He wore the short, rounded vest that many of the mountain inhabitants wore, too – with no shirt, as was the custom in summer. His was dyed the same muddy brown as his shorts, and sported nearly as many patches and darns. Unlike the shorts, it was too small, showing the boy’s ribs all too clearly. The man examining him frowned. There was another fresh scar here – not so large as the one on his leg, but about the same age.

The boy fidgeted with the tie-strings at the front of the vest as he stood there; he stopped and put his hands behind his back when he realized what he was doing.

The face was a strong one, the boy’s grey eyes clear and bright. His nose was straight and lightly freckled and his cheeks were ruddy from the sun. He was chewing on his lower lip nervously as he stood there, but there was good-nature and patience as well as intelligence and curiosity there. His hair was straight and black and looked like it had been carefully trimmed with a dull belt-knife in the dark, hanging this way and that all over his head and straggling down to the neck of his vest in the back. It had the look of not meeting with a comb for several days.

The boy wore the customary necklace of knotted string around his neck. It was new-looking, so the boy’s birth festival couldn’t be long past. The bead on it, though, wasn’t clay, like that of most common folk, particularly children. It seemed to be made of copper; metal beads of this sort were usually worn by those wealthy enough to donate large sums of money to the temples. It would bear closer examination.

“How many festivals have you seen, boy?” boomed the man from the large wooden chair, after his careful examination of the boy. The raven on the back of the chair jumped the sudden sound and flipped his wings irritably. The man put up a hand to soothe the bird.

“Eight, sir, and I have birthing-day feasts, not festivals,” replied the boy in a piping voice. It didn’t quite shake with nervousness. Not quite.

The man’s bushy white eyebrows went up. Birthing-day feasts were reserved for those with unusual birth circumstances. Everyone else made do with the once-per-full-moon festivals for everyone born during that moon.

“Do you, then?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir, I was born at noon, dead on, on the summer solstice. And that day in the afternoon, the moon covered the sun for a bit. See?” The boy leaned forward, holding his necklace out for inspection. The bead was copper, sure enough, and one face bore the symbol of the Sun Temple while the other bore the sign of the Moon Temple. “I’ve a special bead for my dedication necklace and everything.”

The man’s interest was suddenly much higher. A birth like this was a powerful portent. Dare he hope?

“Eight, and with a significant birthing-day,” the man muttered under his breath. Then he said, “You are a bit young, lad; most apprentices would seek me out at the age of at least ten or perhaps even twelve!” He waited to see how the boy would answer. The strongest apprentices often came at eight or so, but only the very strongest.

“My…my uncle said I had to come now, sir. He said it wasn’t safe to wait any longer. He didn’t know if he could get me through another winter, not after this spring.” The boy looked down at the stone floor and shrugged, his foot moving to rub the scarred leg once more.

“What happened this spring, boy?” the man asked in a gentler voice.

The boy gestured with his chin towards the scar on his leg. “That,” he whispered.

“Yes, and how did that happen?”

The boy looked up desperately with tears in eyes, “Please, sir, it’s almost as strong as ever. It’s just a little sore right now ‘cause I walked for three days on to get here. I promise it won’t be a problem – I’m not crippled, sir, I don’t need a crutch to walk now. Won’t you please give me a chance, sir?” The tears welled over and made streaks down the boy’s grubby face.

“I’m not judging your leg, boy, I just want to know what happened!” the man replied gruffly, startled at the boy’s reaction.

The boy looked down again and sniffled. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Some of the people at home, they said you’d send me packing, ‘cause I’m nothing but a cripple and not good for anything anymore, not even herding the sheep like I used to. They said I shouldn’t waste my time or yours by coming here.”

The man didn’t say anything. He just waited.

The boy finally looked up at the patiently staring man and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “You wanted to know how it happened, sir?”

The man nodded.

“It was cold, still, but most of the ewes had lambed. There was a bad storm coming. We were trying to get the ewes and lambs in to the sheep barn so’s we wouldn’t lose too many lambs – the littlest wouldn’t take a really bad storm too good. We had most of ‘em in, but I knew one of the ewes was missing, and somehow, I knew she was in trouble. Uncle – he’s the head shepherd, he watches over all of the beasts and us little ‘uns that help him too, told me not to worry, she was probably in a cave somewhere, ‘cause she’s a wily old thing, and he told me to get into the barn with the rest of the herders. We, us little ‘uns I mean, sleep in the top of the beast barn, in the straw, where it’s warm. I waited until he went to his croft, and I snuck out to find her. It was like I could hear her calling, and she was scared and hurt. I couldn’t just leave her, I couldn’t.” The boy stopped for breath, looking at the man with anguished eyes.

The man just nodded and the boy continued. “It was like someone was pulling me. I went right to where she was, way up on the cliffs. She was down on a ledge -she’d got down there somehow, she must’ve fell some, but she was standing, and there was a new lamb laying beside her. But she was cold and scared and I could feel it. There was a little trail down underneath her, and I thought that if I could climb down to her and carry her lamb, she might follow me down that path and I could get her home.”

The boy paused, gazing at the stone floor. “But my hands were cold, and the rocks were wet, and I slipped. I fell all the way down, past the ledge she was on. It didn’t matter if I missed her ledge, ‘cause I couldn’t have walked anyway. My leg was cut open and my leg bones were poking out. I broke my arm, and my ribs, and I hit my head so’s I don’t ‘member a lot of it. I just ‘member laying there in the rain, watching it turn to snow, and bleeding and hurting. I knew no one could find me, but I kept thinking about Uncle, and how I wished he would come and get me, and carry me home like I was going to carry that lamb.” The boy’s shoulders went up and down slightly in a faint shrug. “The next thing I ‘member is Uncle looking down at me and saying it was all right, that he had me. Then I was in a bed, with my leg and my arm pulled straight and my ribs all wrapped up. I was sick a long time, I know that. Uncle said it was a bone fever and my leg got foul. Everyone said I shouldn’t have lived and they still don’t know how I did.  I haven’t been up out of bed all that long, but I’ve been working at walking good ever since I got up. I knew I had to walk here, and that’s two days if you walk good. I made it in three.” The boy finished, his chin held up defiantly, and looked at the man.

The man gestured to a stool nearby. “Sit down, boy. There is no need for you stand. You have nothing to prove to me on that score.” The boy’s leg had to be aching badly by now. “I need to think. Wait here, but do not touch anything, until someone comes for you.”  As the boy walked over to the stool, limping only slightly, the man stood and walked through a door on the wall near the chair, closing it behind him. The raven flipped his wings, flew across the room, and disappeared out the open door.

– She Wolf (c) 2008

Written by Jane

April 15, 2008 at 5:08 pm

Posted in Portraiture